At last, with dry lips, she spoke. "Who are you?" She did not recognise the sound of her own voice.
"The Lord of Life," the figure answered, in low, deep tones that vibrated through the empty rooms like the swept strings of a harp.
"And this is—?"
"The House of the Broken Heart. I live here."
"Why?" she asked.
"Not of my own choice. Why have you come?"
"Not of my own choice," she repeated, dully. "I came because I had to."
"They all do. That is why I myself am here."
"Do—do many come?"
"Yes."